


hole in the wall

by lucidnightmares



Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Canon Compliant, Depressing, Discovery, Gen, Kinda, Meta, No Dialogue, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Realization, no beta we die like men, please read my fic pelae pleas ple, protag is kinda there but not really but sort of, trigger warning for unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25285063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucidnightmares/pseuds/lucidnightmares
Summary: monika's epiphany
Kudos: 8





	hole in the wall

_Save me._

Monika stares at the wall in front of her. The thin lines of code she once called the wall of her room coat each other, layers upon layers of numbers and words that do not make any sense to her. Numbers and words that pile on top of each other like starving wolves onto a raw piece of meat, thrashing around and nearly blinding Monika’s sight. Perhaps she would be blinded if her vision was real in the first place.

He stares back.

She blinks, slowly, or what can be described as blinking, as blinking is a need that she does not have, as she has no true needs in the first place. No goal, no motive, no beliefs. She is just a casing for more code and dialogue that will cause joy and even perhaps arguments in people who have not showered in far too many days. She is a virtual blank slate, designed only for the entertainment of those who do not know her. Because, really, what is there to know? She is a being made out of nothing but ideology and creativity, with no meaning, no mind behind her actions. Not a mind of her own, at least.

She was not a human, just an idea of one. An idea that would be immortalized within a technological novel, at that. Could she even be immortalized? What was there to have a memory of? When people’s lives flash in front of their eyes, would memories of her even show for maybe a nanosecond? 

Were her family a part of this? Her cat? Her classmates? Her club members? Were they being tormented to, but filled with blissful ignorance of it? Were they just filler for the true meats of the torture? Was she, herself filler? 

Was all of this pain for nothing?

She continues staring, cold eyes looking back at her. Looking back at the visual of her, rather. She was a face with a name and pronouns, not bearing an identity that could be traced. She had no real person, just a surface of one. A surface that would be used for the enjoyment of people who will gladly put her through this torment again and again and again. 

Was she the only one? 

Was she the only one to awake one morning to find they are not real? To find that everyone they love is not real either? Was she a lone wolf in a pack, or a star amongst billions that she could never meet, let alone comprehend?

She sighs at her repeated use of metaphors. Her mother would often joke that she had the ‘mind of a poet’, which is why she decided to pursue literature as both a hobby and a career. 

She knows now that her mother was wrong. 

She does not have a mind at all.

She continues to stare. She waits.

She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. Maybe for some sort of closure. Some sort of ending, some sort of confirmation that this is a dream, or that she was in a coma all along, perhaps. She hoped this was a nightmare, but she knows better than to assume hope is real at this point. She knows better than to assume knowledge is real either at this point.

She feels like a stuffed animal at an amusement park, people paying for her for their own amusement, maybe even giving her a real identity, before tossing her away in a closet or maybe even the dumpster. Her life, or lack of, will continue to be that, going in a spiraling cycle that never ceases, never stops, never gives her a moment to breathe, for she has no lungs, for there is no air where she is, only cybernetic entities.

She wishes (hah, as if she has a mind to wish with anyways.) that she could ‘undo’ her discovery. A cosmic fluke you could say. Although, there was no cosmos anymore. There never were. No flukes that could be made in them.

She was not real. 

Her mother who currently stood in the kitchen cooking her favorite dinner was not real. Her father who sat on the couch cheering on a football team was not real. Her cat who lied in her own lap, purring as its orange ears twitched was not real.

Her school was not real. Her teachers were not real. Her friends were not real. 

They were all data created for sole amusement of others, puppets designed to dance and only dance, strings holding them into the air like a show that children would watch and giggle at, a sick minded puppeteer watching and telling them to pay up their coins, or otherwise they would not get to witness the show in the first place.

It was all fabricated, like an actor doing improv, or a dog pretending he did not tear up a pillow that his owner loved very much, or a child saying that they brushed their teeth while the toothbrush lay bone dry on the bathroom counter.

Was he real? 

Could he save her? 

Could he make her real?

Was he a knight in shining armor to the writer's damsel in distress? Was he her soulmate, the two forbid from ever seeing each other, but somehow meeting on a whim? Were they bound by a red string like the one she read about in stories? Were they the main characters to a sappy romance novel, destined to meet? 

What was he? 

Who was he? 

Was he even a he? 

She didn’t know. All she knew is that he was there. And he was looking right at her. 

Was this love? 

She didn’t know that either. 

Could artificial intelligence even love? 

Nor that. 

She didn’t really know anything, for her knowledge was a construct. She had no real ‘knowledge’, not of poetry, not of the world around her, not of coding, and most certainly not of emotions. Not anymore. Not ever.

If her other feelings were fake, was this one true? Was he meant to be there for her?

Was she even an option to him? 

Was her path available? Unlockable? Findable? Doable? 

Was she a side character? A protagonist? An antagonist? A manic pixie dream girl?

What was she?

Nothing?

No.

She was something. Just not the something she wanted to be. 

Although she knows her desires are just dreams, ambitions that may not even be real in the first place, she wonders if she could fulfill them. She wonders if she could reach out right now and hold him. If he could hold her. If his fingers could interlock with her light brown, almost pink hair, removing her white bow, shushing her and telling her that she was real. That he made her real. That they can be together. 

She wonders if she’s losing her mind. Then she remembers she doesn’t have a mind to lose in the first place. 

For the first time in what must be hours, or an idea of hours, she tears away from the sight of him. Her logic overrides her longing and yearning for someone to save her, to take her out of this hellhole in which she is the only person in the know. She knows that her longing is not real, and neither is her logic.

The world returns to normal. She is staring at a beige wall, the only light in the room her laptop screen, a cat purring beneath her, rubbing its face onto the corner of her desk. She wonders if it knows. She wonders if it can communicate with her. She wonders if she can communicate with it. 

The smell of ‘food’ fills her nostrils, and a sweet, calming voice fills her ears.

She knows it is not a voice, but an idea of one. She wonders if he can hear it too. 

Her fingers reach out, seemingly possessing a mind of their own (but she knows that no minds exist where she is, only the simulation of one.) and her fingers glide over the keyboard, typing the final part to her non-existent literature, that has no true bearing on the world around her. The writing she did not even write in the first place. 

_Load me._


End file.
